Your Puppet
by Thornpaw of Clawclan
Summary: A short story about a girl named Hope. Her life is a series of horrible encounters with fear himself. Fear happens to be a fifteen year old with beautiful dark eyes but an ugly heart.


I walk down the corridors, protectively clutching my folder to my stomach. I move through the sea of slow, fast, loud, quiet people. All different minds. Different minds. Independent thoughts. 50 % have depression. 35% self harm and draw their own blood to punish themselves. Because they think their worthless, and well, they are. Their independent mind means nothing.

That 35% think they have the worst life. Think they are alone. I am like that. I think I've got the worst life here. I'm selfish and self-centred and stupid and shy. Good points right. I'm so thoughtless I think I have a horrible life. I'm worthless. I'm ugly. I'm small, I'm skinny and bony. I'm so alone and so mindless. I'm a mess, a horrible selfish stupid thick mess.

Yet I don't die. Because even though I want to, I can't. He won't let me. Is what he says. Of cores, suicide is my only choice of freedom, the one thing he can't control. I don't want to take the freedom away from myself. So I stay alive. For some reason. My only escapism are my headphones. To drown out my mind. Where I'm safe, so safe and calm. Like death. Right? No, never right, always wrong. Always wrong and never right, can I argue, no. Always no. Never yes, always no, always wrong, never right.

I let the swarm of people push me, shove, hurt me. I let them. How weak is that. My eyes down so I don't have to see the people that try to get past me and try to hurt me. So I don't have to see the hundreds of pairs of eyes that see me and see I am broken. So I don't have to guess what every individual mind is thinking and judging.

But my head shoots up when he's there. I know, I can sense. I don't have to look. Sight is one sense. Thought is another. I know what fear feels like. Like when it shoots through me like electricity, consuming me and making me hide away but walk on. It electrifies me like lighting. It is me, I am fear. No, I'm never right. I never tell the truth. He is fear, I am his minion. I am fearful and he is my fear.

He stands there, leaning against the wall as time slows around us. People seem to slow into a loud and silent blur. Like they're at the edge of my vision but I can't quite make them out. Our eyes lock. Like a jigsaw puzzle they fit perfectly. Like they'd never come apart. He doesn't smile or glare. He just stares. Like he always does. His dark eyes blink at me expectantly.

I dip my head the slightest bit. He returns the greeting and I stand still. The fear is inside of me, slowly eating away at me. My legs begin to shake, like the rest of me. I tremble silently. The loud quiet blur of people leave. The hallway is empty. He dips his head again. He begins to walk towards me. The second dip of the head tells to stay still. Don't move or you'll regret it later. That's what it means. It's not a threat it's a fact. I know, the command is not there to ignore.

The rules are meant to be broken. Why. The rules are there to be followed. So I stay still. There's nobody here. We're alone. Apart from him. He's alone….I'm empty. Totally alone. That's why I love him. He's the only one who sees me. I might as well be invisible. But the eyes still fix on me. They don't say a word. They just stare. I dip my head back at him but he's already a few feet away from me. He stretches taller and I tilt my head up slightly to look into his eyes. But….but sometimes he doesn't like it. So I look at the ground, away from his loud stabbing brown eyes that search my thoughts.

He waits the second to see if I'll run. Never. Never run, never hide, and never…ever tell. Or bad things will happen. How weak is that. Wish I was worth it, to him. I've run before. See, a sign of cowardice and stupidity. What's the point of being strong when there's no reason to? What's the point of holding back tears when nobody will care if they spill? What's the point of being kind when it won't matter a minute later?

His mouth smiles but he doesn't. He still stays grim. He takes his hand and takes me by the wrist. So I won't run if the fear gets too much for me. I tremble, shudder and shiver and shake. The terror grips me hard, leaving grooves in my wrist as he drags me along. But I won't run. I'll follow his footsteps and follow the cold sound of his breath. I'll follow the threat, I'll follow the feeling of insecurity and horror. Like I do every day. Every night. Every time I go to sleep and every time I wake up. At school.

The usual place. The dark welcomes me, and I welcome it back. It beckons to me, but I wait for him first. He kicks me to the ground, under the staircase and into the sweet darkness that waits for me patiently. I turn my head towards him because it makes him happy. My leg now hurts a little, he has a hard kick, but he's gentle. He's careful. He's beautiful. And evil. His heart is cold. My heart was warm, but now it's been tampered with its freezing and collecting darkness. I wait for it to stop but it only gets colder, and I welcome it.

He keels down next to me and puts his cold hands on my blouse. My eyes are dull and empty. He doesn't like it as much, but he'll have to put up with it. I am tensed. In case I flinch or shiver or cry out or yell. Out of fear. He hates that. I live to serve him. My god, my demon, my ghost that haunts my mind and footsteps.

I sigh to get the last breath out of me as his cold white hands lay on my face. He fumbles with the buttons. He has to try again at the top one. As usual. Sometimes he asks for my help. But it's not a question. Never a question, never an answered. Always an order, always a response. I wait for him to unzip my skirt and I half close my eyes. I listen to my heart thump under my pale ghost skin while I wait for him to finish. I hate to feel the silence. The quiet scares me because it mirrors the truth.

An hour later. He finishes and gently lays my clothes on my body to cover myself. I can't get dressed until he's gone. He lies next to me. I don't expect warmth from his body. I expect the cold. Like an icy blast of cold air he puts his hand on my face. Unlike our eyes, it doesn't match. Doesn't fit. I let out a shaky breath at his touch. I'm in so much pain, so sore. I should be used to it by now.

He rummages in his bag, sitting up and takes out the blade, still stained in black blood. My blood. He takes me by the wrist again and sits me up. He looks intensely into my eyes with the deep dark emotions that see through my. My black ones blink back. He searches my face, running his fingers over the stitches and scars and deep grooves and scratches. The place where the plaster used to be. He gentle holds me still while he marks his next scar, pressing the blade into my forehead hard. I don't have to ask.

He carves the words. "My puppet". I lift my hand over the fresh mark. I start to silently cry. I feel the sobs well up inside of me, soundless silent wails. The tears quickly fall, some mixing with the blood and dripping on my legs. I don't try and stop them. He sits cross legged and watches me.

I pull my blouse to cover my top half and turn my head away. My voice is quiet and raspy and shaky as the tears still wet the ground. "I'm your puppet, I'll learn to love it, and I'll undress, if you need it, but please don't need it, if you need it" I can't remember if I made up the song. But I slowly and shakily whisper it. "We have a secret, I will sweep it" I sing softly. I know he's listening as the shakes the dripping blood from his hands.

"Under the carpet, where you'll keep it, how weak is that?" I raise my voice the tiniest bit to make sure he hears me. My voice is croaky and raspy. "Wish I was worth it" I sit up. "To you" more empty tears fall. "You won't be there" I see him stiffen. "How weak is that?" I sing. "Wish I was worth it….to you…."

His dark eyes flicker. And he cries to. Sometimes he does. His tears are different. He lays down next to me. I turn away. He is my master, my bully, my abuser, the stalker, the rapist, these words make him up. The keeper of fear. He cries and places his hand on my fresh cut. "Scream out" he whispers. I sigh. "You won't be there" He jolts up. "How weak is that?" I sing. It hurts. "Wish I worth it…..to you" and then I'm gone. Dead. What a sweet relief. He sobs quietly. I smile in death.

"How weak is that?" I whisper.


End file.
